


Under the Hide of Me

by Blake



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 2015ish?, Canon Compliant, Comfy established relationship sex, Established Relationship, Harry in Panties, M/M, Women's Underwear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 20:45:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8260031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: Harry wears ladies' undergarments because it makes him feel better about a lot of things.  It also gets Louis really hot and bothered.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, gosh. My first Larry fic! I'm really excited to be posting this, and to be writing a million other schmoopy later-years canon fics. Thanks objectlesson for getting me into my new fav! band and for giving me prompts because I don't know how to write if it's not for you. And thank you Jen for reading this over for me and encouraging me to post! You're the best.

_I’m wearing the green pair today._

Harry sends the text and then slouches deeper against the leather seat of the car. He smiles, picturing Louis receiving it. He’s probably still in the nest of blankets Harry left him in earlier that morning. Probably scrolling through sleep-squinty eyes before even getting up to put in his contacts.

Harry’s phone quickly indicates that Louis is typing a reply. Definitely still in bed then.

_you mean the teal?_

Harry squints, frowns. His driver makes a sharp right and Harry figures out Louis’s misunderstanding. He taps his thumbs across the screen, biting his lip in endearment at how quickly Louis jumps to being bitchy about fashion and colors when he’s still half-asleep and too groggy to understand simple flirtations.

_No, not boots…_

There’s a moment of quiet. Harry’s breath lodges in his throat, heavy with affection. Then, the reply:

_fuck_

And a second later:

_Come home now_

Keeping it simple, Harry responds, _No._

He imagines the irritation scrunching up Louis’s face. His eyes would crinkle until the blue was reduced to a mere sparkle, his cheeks would hollow in an exasperated sigh. It would be authentic irritation. Louis gets annoyed at most of Harry’s attempts to exert control over him. _Because nobody believes a teddy bear is going to follow through on its threats, you’re just not convincing_ , Louis would say. _As a former future potential drama instructor, I find it distressing._ Harry would see right through him, but would probably say some line he’s stolen from Louis over the years, like _You’re just a spoiled little boy crying because he can’t have his sweets before supper._

But Louis is on his own today. Harry locks his phone before putting it away, the cotton interior of his pocket the only barrier between his fingertips and the textured catch of the green lace panties.

He goes to his meeting, and is preceded by only _some_ of his reputations. Someone makes a lewd and completely unnecessary joke about how _well_ Harry knows girls, and Harry stuffs a disappointed sigh into the shape of a pleasant-enough chuckle.

One of the worst things about his public image is that it forces him to take part in aspects of society he’d probably not ever choose to _witness_ , given the choice. He can handle millions of people having a low opinion of him, he can handle, on most days, strangers writing him off as just another worthless womanizing rockstar. He works hard to offset the guilt from the sadness and self-deprecation in a thousand girls’ faces when they realize they’re not coming back to his room. And it hurts, but he can handle the fact that love can be invisible, no matter how huge it is.

But he’s nauseated, ever time, when scummy misogynists act chummy with him. His stomach churns with words he’s not allowed to say, and he has to forcibly shut off the part of his brain that wants to despair over how his public image is setting an example for such men, how across the world, men feel validated in their objectification of women because everybody, even Harry Styles, does it.

The knickers help him shut down those thoughts. He fidgets in his seat, scraping his skin across the lace, tells himself it’s egotistical to take responsibility for every arsehole on the planet, reminds himself he is Louis’s. He’s no bigger than the skin he’s in, given shape by a half-decade’s worth of kisses layered over his bones.

After the meeting, he goes to his lunch date, and another meeting, and makes an appearance at a thing he’s meant to make an appearance at.

People flatter him, and those who don’t flatter him _look_ at him. He likes imagining their reactions, how _ugly_ they would find him, were he to undress. They think he’s quirky and stylish when he wears women’s blouses, but if they saw what was underneath—? Would they turn their heads at the garish sight? Or look closer with horror on their faces, examine the grotesque peeks of skin where he doesn’t quite fit into the boy-shorts? Would they frown upon his poor taste? Laugh at his pubic hair? Would they cast judgment on the way the tight lace hem cuts into the flesh of his hips? He wants it all. A dozen people ask him what he’s smiling at. The rest of them know better by now than to waste their energy asking.

It’s not like it’s that radical. It’s not even like he thinks he’s the only man in the room wearing lace panties. It’s not a political statement, for the good of humanity. It’s for him. The combined potential of everyone’s disgust, it’s all his. As is the knowledge that Louis, back at home, _likes_ him this way. _Wants_ his grotesqueness, would kiss it like he’s perfect.

He texts Louis at some point during his afternoon meeting to check in.

Louis tells him he’s running a high fever _and_ can’t stop throwing up _and_ has a sore throat _and_ injured his back hobbling to the toilet _and_ is starving but can’t keep anything down—

_Nice try_ , Harry writes back.

_But they’re mine_ , Louis responds, dropping all pretense.

_Doubt you’re missing them, you’ve never even put them on,_ Harry types out, biting on a smile

His lips part from their smile to hang open as he thinks and writes simultaneously, _Or have you_? He imagines Louis putting them on, lifting his heels and curving his back out to look over his shoulder and check out his bum in the full-length mirror, the way he always does, but with _Harry’s lacy underwear_ stretched across his fleshy cheeks.

But Louis doesn’t even protest the point, which, knowing Louis, means there’s nothing to press on. _They’re mine when they’re on you,_ is all he writes.

Harry has no guilt about resisting Louis’s demands for his immediate return. He’s explained it loads of times, but Louis still somehow feels betrayed whenever Harry does something like this when they’re not in the same room. As if Harry is wearing the knickers _Louis bought for him_ for the benefit of the executives he’s meeting with. As if Harry wearing lace undergarments out in the world makes him feel _less_ connected to Louis than if he kept them _strictly_ set aside for their bedroom.

Halfway through the thing-he’s-meant-to-make-an-appearance-at, his phone rings. He’s in the middle of a conversation, so he ignores it, but calls Louis back in a rare moment of quiet.

Louis’s sweet, high voice pierces his skull, crying, “I made myself come on a plastic cock, since yours wasn’t around. It’s bigger than you anyway,” instead of a more traditional _Hello_.

Harry has long since become an expert in calling Louis’s bluffs. With heat crawling up his neck at the image brought to his mind, Harry smirks his way into a, “No, you didn’t.”

There’s a pause, and then a curt, affronted sigh, as though Louis actually thought his plan was going to successfully make Harry race home in a possessive fury.

“Migh’s well ’ave,” Louis grumbles.

“You can’t even fit half of that thing in you,” Harry adds before Louis hangs up.

A woman named Mercedes whom he met a few minutes ago walks up with two champagne flutes just in time to hear, and raises a single dark, heavy eyebrow. Harry flushes for less than a second. “My friend has a very big…cake, at home.”

“A cake?” she parrots, lips curled as though she is on the inside of this inside joke. And perhaps she is. Harry isn’t always the best judge of these things. He grew into an adult watching Louis sling innuendo around recklessly, assuming that no one would notice except those who wouldn’t be bothered by it in the slightest. He grew out of adolescence watching Louis learn that management was the first to catch lines that were intended to slide right past them.

“Yeah like, a wedding cake. Huge.”

Somewhat seamlessly, he changes the topic. At one point, Mercedes asks what he’s laughing at, and he realizes he’s been imagining how much of a _mess_ a younger version of himself would be, wearing knickers that _Louis bought for him_ in public, receiving crude phone calls from Louis in the middle of a gathering. He would be so embarrassing. He would feel so flustered and _humiliated_ , and Louis would be soaking it all up.

And Harry still gets off on Louis humiliating him, he does. It’s just that he’s older now, and it takes more creativity on Louis’s part than it used to. He remembers a time Louis made him wear a bra for entire concert, and every time Louis had looked at him— _knowing_ , smug and holding information he could-or-could-not expose to whomever he chose—had sent shivers down his spine, and he spent half the show battling an erection and half the night under Louis’s mouth.

Now, Harry can send that smug look right back.

He no longer does this because it’s thrilling and taboo; he does it because it makes him feel beautiful, in the only way that matters to him, in the only way that overrides all the _wrong_ ways people find him beautiful.

He slips away from the thing-he’s-successfully-made-an-appearance-at before he has to find out whether Mercedes or anybody else was hoping to test out a select few of his reputations. His car arrives quickly, and instead of texting Louis, he asks his driver about his son’s book report.

It’s rush hour and also Los Angeles, so it takes about a year to get to Louis’s house and into his living room to find him sitting in a mostly-horizontal slouch across from the huge flat-screen.

Three minutes later they’re in bed.

“Let me—I just want to see—Just—” Louis sputters, trying to curl up for a view while Harry holds his shoulders down to the mattress.

Harry kisses him some more, sloppy and hot. It takes a very small portion of his brain to keep Louis’s slight limbs pinned to the bed. The rest is a happy, desperate mess.

Louis’s hands are so quick, though, and they sneak away Harry’s shirt somehow, but it’s fine. Once the shirt is up around his neck, it becomes a joint effort. Louis’s right; Harry is not much of an authoritarian.

“Can I suck you off,” Harry starts, pulling his smile down the length of Louis’s t-shirt to rest at his bare hip, “or are you still too nauseous and feverish?”

Louis groans unhappily even as he grinds the back of his head into the sheets.

Harry helps himself.

He closes his eyes at how good Louis tastes, sweeping his hardening cock all across his lips, every one of his taste buds, the insides of his cheeks, the back of his throat. There’s the cleanness of his late morning shower, the salty bite of his afternoon sweating freely into his joggers, the musk of a few moments of fruitless arousal.

He sucks Louis down all the way for a brief second, and in the wake of the responding gasp, pops off to say, “You’re my very favorite mouthful in the world.” He goes right back to it, sealing his lips and sliding all the way down to the root, moaning in reverence at the steel-hardness filling his throat.

When Louis gathers enough breath, he says, “What other mouthfuls are you familiar with?” Even through his choked, unsteady voice, he manages to be teasing Harry about his somewhat limited experience while also sounding insecurely jealous.

Harry adds more tongue pressure to the next few strokes and then indulges in an unproductive suckle or two from the exposed slit before removing his mouth and sitting up with a knee on either side of Louis’s hips.

Louis immediately reaches for Harry’s fly, but Harry swats his hands away. Those small, clever hands spring backward to spread into a sarcastically dramatic hands-up gesture. Harry waits for Louis’s cheeky wide stare to drop to his crotch.

“Can you see them?” Harry asks, not much _voice_ in his voice. He spreads his hands across his own hips, watching Louis’s eyes eating him up. “See here?” He sweeps his fingers across the bottom hem of the shorts, riding up on one side under his jeans. If Louis looks closely enough, the line _is_ visible. Harry’s sure. “And where I don’t quite fit?” He finishes his sentence before stroking his thumb over the obscene protrusion on the other side of his jeans, the spot just below the head of his cock where the lace is trapping him, reinforced by tight denim. It’s honestly painful. But Harry’s not averse to a bit of pain. Especially when it has Louis swallowing so hard it’s clear he’d be drooling if he didn’t.

To his credit, Louis _does_ manage to nod. And swallow again.

Satisfied, Harry unbuttons his jeans and slides them down as far as they’ll go with his knees spread. It’s enough.

Once Louis moans, and his hands grip Harry’s thighs like they have to clutch _something_ , Harry folds down to kiss at Louis’s neck, nose his way under the collar of his t-shirt.

“So fucking beautiful,” Louis groans, trying ineffectively to make fists in the skin of Louis’s thighs.

“Was like this all day,” Harry murmurs against spit-wet skin. “Dressed up for you. Covered in you.”

Louis lets out a pained, high-pitched moan as though he’d just been touched. Grinning, and hungry, Harry folds himself up more so his jeans are clear and trapping Louis tight across the abdomen, and then he sits on his cock.

Louis hisses at that, at the scrape of lace. Harry’s mouth waters at the heat of him through the thin material. He licks up across the scruff on Louis’s jaw and gently bites his chin.

“Bet you want to come just like this.”

“Wanna touch you,” is Louis’s immediate reply.

“You _are_ touching me.” Harry loses his bite to a smile as he rubs _down_ , the underside of his cock grinding lace into Louis’s, his sac—spilling out a bit from the narrow strip of material now that his arrangement is fucked—pressing against plush abdominal skin.

Really, _Harry_ wants to come just like this.

But he rolls over awkwardly onto his side and then back, so as not to scrape denim against Louis’s sensitive parts while he strips his jeans off the rest of the way. Louis, naturally, takes the tactical advantage and sits up in the meantime, spreading his greedy paws all over Harry’s chest, sliding lower at an indecent speed.

Harry grabs both those fine wrists and watches tattooed skin crinkle and distort under the pressure. It’s easy to wrestle Louis onto his back, and easier still to once again swallow down the length of his cock.

The weight of Louis in his mouth, the smell of his sweat, and the trembling heat underneath Harry’s spread hands has Harry so desperate, so hard. Soon he’s moaning around Louis’s cock as though _he’s_ the one being serviced.

“Harry,” Louis huffs from his bitten red mouth, which Harry spares a glance to. He sounds breathless, but also annoyed, like this isn’t the way he wants to come.

But it’s the way Harry wants him to come, and Harry can do anything with his mouth he sets his mind to.

Harry holds him down and sucks him dry, savoring every twitching surge of blood under the pressure of his lips, every hot salt smear coating his throat, every jump of Louis’s abdominal muscles against his nose, forehead. Once Louis is beginning to shrink inside the gentle hollow of his mouth, he lets him slip out. He takes one final swallow, moaning loudly, feeling quite happy with himself.

“Now you can have what you want,” Harry says, still lying between Louis’s legs, atop the joggers no one bothered to pull past his thighs. There’s something pleasing about giving Louis access to his body only _after_ he’s too sated to do anything about it. Like he has Louis’s full attention.

When Harry looks up, Louis’s face is twisted into a maze of frustration and desire. Harry’s heart stops. He just loves Louis so much.

After little to no hesitation, Louis puts Harry on his knees and elbows and starts sucking at his hole through a barrier of lace.

Harry is already coming undone—Louis’s warm spit seeping down and soaking the fabric that’s pressed too tight against his balls, his own cock spurting out fluid that drips mildly onto the rumpled sheet, his arms shaking as he holds himself up—when Louis pulls his sweet mouth away long enough to drag the top hem of the shorts down past the curve of Harry’s cheeks. Harry can feel it, the waistline digging in, something to focus on as he waits in the agonizing limbo between Louis’s touches.

He knows he’s been quite vocal, but the sound he makes when Louis’s tongue swipes across his _bare_ crack would wake anyone within a hundred foot radius. It’s _so good_ , and he tells Louis so on his next breath.

Louis tells him plenty of stuff back, murmurs it against the sensitive spit-wet damp of his crack, but it all makes Harry so dizzy with heat, he doesn’t really know what the individual words are.

It takes Harry a moment to recognize the pressure of Louis’s hand on his cock. Such a light touch, and interrupted by lace. He forces himself to open his squeezed-shut eyes and look at Louis reaching between his thighs, his fingers carefully arranging him within the shorts. He nearly chokes at the combined view and sensation of Louis pulling the fabric up in the front just enough to crest over the tip of Harry’s cock, trapping his leaking cock just beneath the tiny green bow on the hem.

And all the while, Louis is tonguing his way in to lick Harry open.

Louis, clever cruel Louis, uses the apparatus he’s constructed out of Harry’s knickers to _pull_ , bringing the length of his cock caught tight between his abdomen and the rough lace. It’s terrible. It’s gorgeous. It’s pressure. It’s Louis’s control.

Harry comes.

His vision goes white as his body empties itself, the bone-deep pulses from the lowest point in his belly out the top of his cock the only thing tying him to physical reality. When he opens his eyes, Louis is flopped onto his back between Harry’s spread knees, like a stargazer looking up at the constellation of white that spurted past the trap of lace and onto Harry’s stomach. There’s a lot gathered in his knickers, too, and suddenly Louis cranes his neck off the bed to suck at where it’s seeping through.

Harry cries out, oversensitive, but doesn’t arch away from the contact. No matter his instincts, he wants everything Louis will ever give him.

Louis’s head drops to the bed again, and he arches his neck to smile at him. Harry smiles back, his face feeling heavy and weird from hanging upside-down in the darkness created by his upturned hair.

“Mine,” Louis says, quiet, simple, almost a question. Harry slides and drags himself to lie on top of him, kicking their feet together where they stick out past the edge of the bed.

Against Louis’s lips, he says, “Bought and paid for. No returns policy,” and Louis doesn’t pause to smile before sealing their mouths in a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make my day!


End file.
